


Sammy's Bad Day

by kms726



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Papa Winchester, Pre-Series, Weechester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kms726/pseuds/kms726
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Dean's first day of school, and Sammy is having a rough day without his big brother. John feels helpless as his youngest suddenly becomes extremely accident prone, and wonders if Dean's absence is to blame...or something else. Pre-series. Wee!chesters. Pro-John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean's First Day

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.

"Here we are, kiddo," said John, stopping outside the open classroom door of Mrs. Benzel's first grade classroom. "Room number seven."

"Seven's a lucky number," Dean stated matter-of-factly.

"It sure is, buddy. See? The school year's already off to a good start," said John, whilst playing a game of hand-over-hand to hold onto a wriggling Sammy, who was straining with all his might to get out of his father's arms to investigate the noisy and exciting classroom filled with other children and undoubtedly some toys. "You ready, Dean?"

Six-year-old Dean glanced up at his Dad before peeking his head around the door frame, staring apprehensively into the bustling classroom, scoping it out. Dean withdrew his head before anyone spotted him, shrinking away from the door again and gripping the straps of his backpack tightly, feeling enormously out-of-place. Dean knew school was where he was supposed to be. It was where all the other kids his age went all day. But he was also painfully aware that he wasn't like those other kids. They may have belonged in school, but he knew his place was with his Dad and Sammy. They needed him, and he was anxious about being separated from his family, even if it was just for a short time; he honestly didn't know what they were going to do without him.

John was thinking the exact same thing as he gazed down at his eldest son. "You'll be alright, Dean. So will me and Sammy. And you'll feel better after you meet your teacher—I know I will. Come on, kiddo." He moved toward the door, knowing Dean would be more comfortable stepping into the new environment if he led the way. John stopped short when he felt Dean tug on his sleeve, looking up at him with wide, hesitant green eyes.

"Wait, Dad," Dean pleaded anxiously. John immediately lowered himself to Dean's eye level, one knee on the linoleum floor, and sat Sammy down on his raised bent knee, one arm still around the toddler's bare midriff, where his shirt with the monster truck on it had ridden up from all his squirming. John held fast, preventing the adventurous toddler from wrecking havoc on the unsuspecting first grade class. His other hand went to Dean's shoulder, and he spoke to him with a voice filled with concern. "What's wrong, son?"

"What if...what if my teacher knows?" Dean whispered in John's ear.

"Knows what?" John asked, also in a hushed voice. There was any number of things Dean could be afraid of his teacher knowing about him and his family, all of which would raise more than a few eyebrows in administration.

"That...that I never went to kindergarten," Dean said, looking anxiously over his shoulder, as if afraid his teacher was eavesdropping and would now assure that he was kicked out of school for trying to trick the system.

"Oh, that," said John dismissively, stopping himself from chuckling. Dean's face was still deadly serious and deeply troubled, and it wouldn't help his situation any to think his Dad was laughing at his fears. "I took care of it. As far as the school knows, you passed kindergarten with flying colors."

"You mean...you lied?" Dean said, his voice now barely audible.

John really didn't feel like having this conversation right now, but he supposed Dean had to know about his cover story so he wouldn't get tripped up if his teacher asked him about his old school. Before, when they still lived in Kansas, Dean had been enormously excited about starting kindergarten. But a lot of things had happened since then; he was a different kid now. When Dean turned five and the time to register arrived, John had intended to enroll Dean in school. But when it came time to sign Dean up, John just couldn't do it. He had considered half-day kindergarten, but no—he couldn't even bring himself to do that; his paranoia wouldn't allow it. John had some serious and justifiable trust issues, and at the time, the idea of placing his son in a building with several hundred strangers was unthinkable to him—anything could happen! But Dean was a year older now, and a year wiser. John had taught him the basics of how to protect himself and dosed him with more cautions of the dangers of the world than any kid his age should ever have to know. And now he could at least send his eldest child to school with some small amount of reassurance that he could look out for himself if, God forbid, something were to happen.

"Not entirely," John said, "I told the Principal that we've been moving around a lot, and that things have been hard since," he swallowed. "...since your mother. I think they understood."

"But what if the other kids can tell?" said Dean anxiously, "What if they think I'm dumb 'cos I didn't go to kindergarten?"

"I've never heard of a kid who skipped a grade because they were dumb, Dean," said John, with an encouraging smile. "You deserve to be with other kids your age. You're just as smart as any of those snot-nosed kids in there. Maybe even smarter. I let you bypass kindergarten because I know you can handle anything that first grade can throw at you. And I won't let any administrate dictator tell me otherwise."

Dean positively glowed under his father's praise, a shy smile turning up the corners of his lips. "You really think I'm smart, Dad?"

"You betcha, kiddo," said John, hand now on the back of Dean's neck. "You're a good listener. You're great at following directions, which I know your teacher's gonna appreciate. You're a fast learner, you're responsible, and you've got a good head on your shoulders. You're gonna be great."

Dean's smile was like the sun. "Dad, d'you think the kids here are learning the same kinda stuff I've been learning?"

"No, Dean. I don't think so. They typically stick to the three R's," John continued to speak quietly, lest any parent, student, or teacher overhear and have their curiosity piqued; he seriously doubted any other first grader in there was learning how to field strip a Browning, and he sure as hell didn't want them knowing his kid could. "And it might be a good idea not to talk about my job on the playground, okay? Or anywhere else, for that matter."

"Okay," Dean agreed solemnly. "I won't say anything."

Satisfied that Dean was both reassured and wouldn't be perpetuating other student's beliefs in the supernatural, John straightened up, positioning Sammy in a one-armed side-hold, his belly resting against John's forearm. Sammy giggled with delight, tipping his head forward so he was looking upside down. And he was, thankfully, entertained enough by the doors on the new linoleum-tiled ceiling to halt his escape attempts.

"Ready, kiddo?" John asked, a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean nodded deftly, and the two elder Winchesters and upside-down Sammy walked into the classroom side-by-side. John felt Dean tense slightly next to him as he took in the strange new environment up-close; he had never been in a classroom before. Dean gazed around the room with wide eyes—at the alphabet banner running along the perimeter of the room, the colorful educational posters on the wall, the large chalkboard, the globe on a pedestal, the hamster cage under the window, bins of toys, pattern blocks and book bins, and thirty individual desks with little blue chairs lined up in six neat rows. Members of Mrs. Benzel's first grade class were occupying some of these seats. The rest were exploring their classroom, chattering among their peers. Some of the more unruly and unsupervised children were simply running amok. There was a decent smattering of parents there to usher their children into the first day of grade school, and John was acutely aware that he was the only Dad in the classroom.

After a moment of standing awkwardly by the door, the Winchesters were greeted by a kind-faced woman with honey-blonde hair and warm brown eyes, wearing a pale pink business suit. "Welcome!" she greeted warmly, extending her hand to John. "I'm Mrs. Benzel."

"John Winchester," John shook the teacher's hand, and she immediately passed his first test of character with her firm handshake. "These are my sons. The little one here is Sammy—"

"Hello, Sammy," said Mrs. Benzel, bending her neck to the side and leaning over so she could see the toddler from the same upside down vantage point. Sammy giggled and righted himself, John securing his hold on him. "But you're too little to be one of my students, aren't you? How old are you, honey?"

"Two," Sammy answered brightly, holding up a pair of fingers.

"That's right, buddy," said John proudly, as Mrs. Benzel beamed at the toddler. He nodded to the boy that was practically glued to his side. "And this is Dean."

"Dean Winchester!" Mrs. Benzel said excitedly, shaking Dean's hand. "It's so good to meet you, Dean! I hear you moved here from Kansas."

"Uh-huh," Dean nodded, deciding it was simpler to agree than to explain all the places he'd lived between Lawrence and Pine Bluff, Arkansas. He was already warming up to the nice lady who wasn't anywhere near as scary as he imagined a teacher to be. He also liked that she didn't use a different voice when she talked to him and Sammy like other adults did. "I went to kindergarten there. My teacher was Mrs. Hunsuckle. She had blue hair and smelled like cats."

"Did she, now? Oh my," Mrs. Benzel laughed appreciatively, looking up at John, who looked just as bemused as she did.

"Yep. That Mrs. Hunsuckle was a real character," John smirked, impressed at Dean's ability to come up with a fake name and story off the cuff; a skill that would definitely come in handy in their line of work. "Sorry, I need to let this one loose before he hurts himself," John said, as Sammy strained so far forward he almost fell out of John's reach, coming dangerously close to landing on his head. "Be good, Sammy. I'm watching you." He set the little boy on the floor, where he took off like a cat on a hot tin roof, making a beeline for the toys.

"That's such a fun age," said Mrs. Benzel, watching as Sammy dove headfirst into the bin of multi-colored cardboard bricks. "They're so energetic!"

"Tell me about it," John said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sammy can be a real handful sometimes. But Dean here is a big help with him," said John, drawing Dean into a one-armed side-hug.

"I'm sure Dean is a great big brother," Mrs. Benzel smiled. Dean's cheeks colored as he smiled shyly, half-hiding his face in the pleat of his Dad's jeans.

"Hey, buddy, why don't you go play with Sammy for a few minutes?" said John, giving Dean a gentle nudge forward. "I want to talk to your teacher."

"Okay," said Dean agreeably. He motioned John down to his level, meaningfully cupping his mouth with his hand. John inclined his head down and Dean whispered something in his ear, before running off to join Sammy in building a structurally unsound cardboard castle to house the animal hand puppet kingdom.

"Dean seems like a very bright boy. I'll do whatever I can to make him feel comfortable here," said Mrs. Benzel, who hadn't failed to notice the way Dean clung to his father and was currently puppy-guarding his little brother from the other rowdy children. He looked to her like a deeply caring child; one who would be prone to separation anxiety. "I know it can be difficult starting at a new school."

"Dean's pretty adaptable," said John, feeling guilty thinking of the number of times they'd had to uproot in the past year. "He doesn't talk much, but he's a good kid. He's funny, but guarded. You've just got to get him to come out of his shell, but not force it. If you know what I mean."

"I do," said Mrs. Benzel understandingly. "I'll give extra special attention to Dean."

John suddenly shifted uncomfortably. "You've seen Dean's file, Mrs. Benzel?"

"Yes, I have," said Mrs. Benzel, delicately. "I...I'm very sorry for your family's loss, Mr. Winchester."

"John," he corrected her, and muffled a cough. "Thing is, I thought you should have some idea of what Dean's been through this past year. But I don't want him to have any special treatment, or be singled out. When Dean's here, I'd appreciate it if he was given a chance to just be an ordinary kid."

"Oh, of course!" Mrs. Benzel said reassuringly. "I completely understand. And I'll do my best to respect your wishes, John."

"Thanks," said John, slightly gruffly. He laughed suddenly. "D'you know what the first thing Dean asked me after I told him I'd enrolled him here was?"

"No—what?" Mrs. Benzel asked curiously.

"If the cafeteria has pie," John chuckled. "He reminded me to ask you, just now."

"Yes," Mrs. Benzel responded with a note of amusement, "You can tell Dean that the cafeteria usually serves pie or cobbler for dessert about once a week, usually on Tuesdays," Mrs. Benzel said. She was already growing very fond of her new student from Lawrence, Kansas—could tell he was a real character. She looked up to see John give Dean the thumbs up, and a grin broke out across the child's lightly freckled face that spread from ear to ear.

"I'm glad. Dean's really torn about being away from Sammy every day," John explained. "The two of them are usually glued at the hip. The promise of pie is sort of like a consolation prize to him."

"Does he have a favorite pie?" Mrs. Benzel asked, always keen to show her genuine interest in her students. "I'm pretty good friends with the woman who arranges the lunch schedule."

John weighed the question. Apple? Pumpkin? Berry? Banana crème? All pies seemed to be created equal to Dean. "Not really. If it has the word 'pie' in it, that's always been good enough for him."

"Do you do a lot of baking, John?" Mrs. Benzel smiled.

"Me? God, no," John said, thrusting his hands deep inside his pockets, his eyes suddenly sad. Mrs. Benzel was already anticipating his response, realizing now that the answer was so obvious and wishing she could retract her question. "His mother used to make it for him all the time."

"Well, I'm glad Dean has such a lovely memory of his mother," said Mrs. Benzel sincerely, her warm brown eyes shining with compassion.

"Yeah," John mumbled softly, eyes downcast. It was more than he'd talked to someone about Mary in months, and he found it was still just as painful. "Me, too."

Suddenly awkward, Mrs. Benzel checked her watch, casting John an apologetic smile. He nodded to her in understanding, and Mrs. Benzel clapped her hands three times, drawing the attention of the parents and about half of the students. "Okay, everyone! We're going to be starting class in a few minutes. So parents, please say goodbye to your students now, and if my class would please each take a seat—"

Mrs. Benzel wandered off to corral her students. She paused briefly in front of Dean and Sammy. John watched as she spoke to them, smiling, and with her back to him, bent down in front of Sammy. He saw Mrs. Benzel's elbow raise in what he suspected was a handshake with Sammy. She ruffled Sammy's hair and straightened up. John watched the exchange with a smile; he could tell both his boys had already taken a shining to Mrs. Benzel.

John checked his watch, and saw that class was due to start now. He looked up to see Dean kneeling beside Sammy, helping him tie his perpetually loose shoelaces. Dean finished securing Sammy's shoe and made his way over to John, dragging Sammy by the hand, who was in turn tugging a teddy bear along behind him that was bigger than he was.

"Seems like you lucked out with your teacher, Dean. I think you're really gonna like it here," said John, placing his hand on Dean's shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Okay, Dad," said Dean immediately, as if liking the classroom were instructions he'd been issued and was expected to obey.

"When school gets out, we'll be right outside waiting for you by the flagpole by the front doors, alright, kiddo? You come straight outside to us when class gets out; I know Sammy will be dying to see you. Listen to your teacher, and follow her instructions. Never leave the classroom to go to the bathroom without asking Mrs. Benzel for permission first. Stay inside the gates at recess. Save the change from your lunch. The school has the number to reach me if you have any emergencies," said John, tacking off his mental list of reminders for Dean as he went, deciding he'd covered pretty much everything. "And just...look out for yourself, Dean."

Dean nodded, taking note of the strange derivative on his Dad's final admonition, which brought him to his biggest concern about leaving his family to fend for themselves. He suddenly gripped his Dad's arm urgently, with surprising strength for his age. "And you're gonna look out for Sammy, right, Dad?"

"Of course I will, Dean," said John, slightly exasperated.

"Promise you'll look out for Sammy," said Dean, with an intensity in his eyes that was unnatural for one so young. It was so surreal for John, to have his own orders echoed back to him, with an unbecoming amount of authority in a six-year-old.

"I promise," said John solemnly, as Sammy stood there hugging the massive coffee-colored teddy bear and sucking his thumb. "I swear I'll look out for Sammy."

"You won't let anything bad happen to him?" said Dean, eyes wide.

John couldn't believe Dean would even ask such a thing. "Dean, don't worry—your brother's safe with me."

Dean released his grip on John's arm, visibly relaxing. He instead threw his arms around John's waist, hugging him tightly. John prized Dean's arms off and lifted him up in an embrace as Dean's arms wrapped around his neck. "I'm gonna miss you, kiddo," he said in Dean's ear, and felt Dean's grip around his neck tighten, burying his face in John's broad shoulder. Sammy, always hating being left out, dragged the bear with him, and used his free arm to hug John's leg.

"Say bye to Sammy," John whispered to Dean, lowering him to the floor. Dean turned to his little brother, opening his arms wide. Sammy happily hugged Dean around his middle, the naturally affectionate toddler oblivious to the reason they were all hugging. So when Dean said, "Bye, Sammy," it sent the two-and-a-half year old into a tailspin.

"Bye?" Sammy repeated, clinging tighter to Dean, his eyes wide with panic. "Where you go?"

"I'm staying here, Sammy," Dean explained gently. He had already told Sammy he was going to school, and only now realized that his little brother must have thought they were all going to school, like a day trip—and hadn't grasped the idea that his big brother would be left behind.

"No!" Sammy screamed his favorite word, shoving away from Dean, his little face growing red. "You come, Dean!" He pulled on Dean's arm, trying to drag him towards the door, but Dean stayed rooted in place, too heavy to be pulled by Sammy's little toddler arms.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I have to stay at school. I'll be back home later today," Dean said soothingly, hoping to calm his brother's tantrum—half the class were already staring at them.

"NO!" Sammy positively shrieked, petitioning his father for help. "Dean no stay! Make him come, Daddy!"

"I'm sorry, pal," said John sympathetically. "Dean's got to stay here. But we'll come back for him later. He'll be home before dinner."

"NOOOO!" Sammy cried, fat nears now streaming down his face. He started hitting John's leg, furious at him for consenting to giving Dean away. John bent over, swiftly picking up Sammy, who began pounding his chest with tiny balled-up fists instead. "No, Sammy," he said firmly. "No hitting."

Sammy let out a shriek like a banshee in response to the reprimand, and started his current, inexplicable tactic of smacking himself and saying, "No!" whenever he was told not to do something. John couldn't work out exactly what Sammy meant to accomplish by this behavior apart from punishing him for saying "No" by beating himself up. It also made him consider picking up a book on child psychology instead of the occult sometime.

"I'd better get him out of here, kiddo," said John, bending down and pressing a kiss into the top of Dean's hair. "He'll be alright," he said, addressing Dean's torn expression. "We'll be back for you at three."

"Okay," said Dean softly, his eyes fixed on Sammy, wishing that either he could leave too or that Sammy could stay; he could look out for Sammy at school just like he did at home. But something told him that idea just wouldn't fly; no one else had their little brother or sister with them.

John smiled tightly, running his hand over Dean's short-cropped blonde hair, forcing himself to tear away from his eldest. He tried to think of it as just another hunt, where he was trusting Dean in the care of a capable and trusted individual. He knew he should feel even more secure with Dean being in a school, but he wasn't. He'd researched the history of the school grounds and the surrounding area, and hadn't found anything out of the ordinary. But he was still anxious for Dean, hoping he wouldn't suffer for missing kindergarten, because that had been his fault—hoped he would be a quick learner, that he wouldn't struggle, that he would get along with the other kids, and that he'd be able to fit in. Most of all he worried for Dean being separated from his brother; he was always strongest with Sammy by his side.

John paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, and Sammy blubbered, "D-D-Dean!" Mrs. Benzel put her hand on Dean's shoulder, gently guiding him to the last empty seat. As Dean's back turned away, John let out a long-suffering sigh, adjusted his hold on Sammy—now in his full-blown meltdown stage—and marched down the long, empty hallway lined with classes that were already in session.

As ever when John left one or both of his children, he felt like he was leaving a part of himself behind. Sammy was still screaming for his brother as John strapped him into his car seat, giving John the mother of all headaches. He got in the driver's seat and positioned the rear view mirror so that it was directed solely at Sammy, who was casting him a dirty glare of betrayal as his mouth emitted a sound that was almost supersonic.

When they got back to the motel room, Sammy bolted through the front door, climbed up onto one of the beds and dramatically threw himself face-down into the mattress, sobbing tears of fury. John set his bag down by the door and sat heavily beside Sammy on the bed, who instantly inched away from him.

"C'mon, Sammy. Don't be like that," said John softly, reaching out and rubbing gentle circles on Sammy's back. "Don't be mad at me. I was hoping we could have some fun today. Just you and me."

Sammy mumbled into the mattress, and John thought his response sounded something like a defiant, "No! Go away!"

"Fine. You wanna sulk all day?" said John tiredly, getting to his feet. "Suit yourself. I've got work to do, anyway."

John went to sit at the round table by the window and pulled his journal towards him, opening up to his most recent entry. Sammy lifted up his head and cast a furtive, tear-filled glance at him, quickly looking back down and hiding his face when John caught his reproachful stare. John lowered his gaze to his journal again, and it wasn't long before he again sensed he was being watched. And this time, Sammy held his gaze, his eyes scorching.

"Don't look at me like that, Sammy!" John exclaimed, "I did not abandon your brother!"

"You leave Dean!" Sammy shouted accusingly. "You a bad Daddy!"

John groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I told you, Sammy—we're gonna go pick Dean up in a few hours. And I swear—if you stick that lip out any further I'll to be able to rest a plate in it," he patted his lap. "Come over here and sit with me, buddy."

Sammy "Hmphed!" and buried his face in the blankets again.

John sighed deeply before rising to his feet and tiptoeing stealthily over to the bed. He lifted up the corner of a loose blanket on the still-unmade bed, casting it over Sammy's shoulder. The toddler lifted his head up, but it was too late for escape—John was already pushing on Sammy's side, rolling him along the bed, wrapping him up in the quilted blanket until he was a Sammy burrito. The little boy forgot he was supposed to be sulking and giggled crazily, fighting to tunnel his head to the surface with his arms pinned uselessly at his sides. He felt himself being lifted up, and finally poked his head over the edge of the blanket wrap, and found himself looking into his Dad's smiling face.

John sat down on the bed, settling Sammy on his lap, his head resting in the crook of John's elbow. Sammy tried to squirm, but was bound by his restraints. "Can't—move!"

"That's kind of the point, son," said John. "I want to talk to you. You're mad at me, right?"

"Yes," said Sammy, his scowl returning as he remembered he was supposed to be cross.

"Do you know what would happen to Daddy if I didn't send Dean to school?"

Sammy shook his head, his hair flopping.

"Not only would your brother be illiterate—" John saw the look of confusion cross Sammy's face at the new vocabulary word, and clarified, "—not able to read and write—but I'd have to go to jail. Thanks to a little thing called truancy, there's a law—a rule—that kids Dean's age have to go to school. And since I'm not exactly a good teacher, he has to go to a real school. Understand?"

Sammy huffed. "I hate school."

"Don't say that, Sammy. One day you'll be going to school, too," said John.

Sammy's expression brightened. "Wit' Dean?"

"Yeah. You won't be in the same class, but you'll be going to the same school one day, at least for a few years," said John, taking into account the four-year age difference between his sons. "In the meantime, you stay home and keep me company, I stay out of jail, Dean gets a free education, and I'm sure he's gonna come home and teach you everything he learns so you'll already be the smartest kid in class before you even start. That sound good, kiddo?"

After some consideration, Sammy nodded his head fervently, looking considerably more cheerful. Satisfied that his youngest wouldn't be shooting daggers at him all day now, John inched up Sammy's blanket to free his feet, setting him on the ground. "Alright. I'm gonna let you loose now, and you're not gonna hit Daddy anymore, okay?" said John, gripping a corner of Sammy's blanket and pulling. "Spin, Sammy!"

Sammy teetered back and forth on his stocky toddler legs, spinning on the spot as John pulled on the blanket by lengths. Round and round Sammy went as the blanket peeled off him,with John reeling it in. The tail end corner of the blanket whipped off Sammy, who almost fell over in a dizzy daze. John caught Sammy by the shoulders before he spun out, making him spin one time in the opposite direction to counterbalance his dizziness. He picked Sammy up, giving the toddler's smooth cheek a scratchy kiss. "You still mad at me, Sammy?"

Sammy gave the question some serious consideration before shaking his head no.

John let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "That's good. I'm glad. C'mon, pick something for us to do now. Anything you want."

"Read book!" Sammy declared without hesitation, clapping his hands together excitedly. Sammy loved to be read to. Mary used to read to the boys all the time, though Sammy was too young to remember that. John slacked off in the reading department, but he would make the effort whenever he had the energy as well as both of the boy's attention. John knew Dean was excited to learn to read so he could read to Sammy, too. The downside of that, for John, was he was going to miss listening to Dean make up stories to go to the pictures; he'd always found Dean's renditions far more entertaining than the original text.

"Sure, buddy," John smiled, setting Sammy on the floor. "Go pick one out."

Sammy tottered over to the massive pile of kid's books stacked on the far nightstand, checked out from the library and probably long overdue. The toddler returned with not just one book, but as many as he could carry.

"This one!" Sammy exclaimed, thrusting an orange volume at John and setting the rest in a stack on the bed.

"Green Eggs and Ham," John instantly recognized the cover, not at all surprised at Sammy's choice; it was his favorite book, and he checked it out in every city they went to. John lifted Sammy up, turned the boy around so his back was to him, and settled down against the pillows, where Sammy immediately rested his head against John's chest, snuggling in close to his side. Sammy's head went up under John's chin, where his soft hair tickled. John breathed in the sweet, fresh scent of Sammy's baby shampoo. He wrapped one arm around the toddler's middle, using the other to hold up the book.

As usual, he let Sammy 'read' the first page. "I am Sam!" the little boy chanted. Smiling, John turned the page. When John said nothing, Sammy, who couldn't read the page, took his father's pause to mean it was his turn again. "I am Sam!" and on the next page, John started, "Sam..."

"I am!" Sam finished the line happily. And so it went on like that, with John reading everything but the "'I am Sams' and 'Sam I am's'," where he left pauses for Sammy to fill in with one of the two options, sometimes differing from the text. They made their way through what felt like Dr. Seuss' entire back catalog, including John's least favorite— "You don't have to jump on me just because we're reading Hop on Pop, Sammy," to his personal favorite, The Pale Green Pants with Nobody Inside Them, which John thought would make for a pretty compelling hunt if he ever came across such a phenomenon in real life.

When he closed the cover on Yertle the Turtle, John set the book aside and asked his youngest, "What d'you wanna do next, Sammy?" before the boy could get a chance to suggest they read all the books again like he usually did.

Sammy tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Watch TV!"

"I think I can just about manage that," said John, reaching out and grabbing the remote from the bedside table. He turned on the TV, where it was still on a kid's channel from when the boys had been watching Scooby-Doo during breakfast. Sammy had been so enthralled by a talking dog that John had to remind him to eat, while he was certain he had heard Dean mutter, "Amateurs," into his corn flakes.

With a few notable exceptions such as The Looney Tunes and other shows he had grown up watching, John thought that most children's programming was downright annoying, but he did a good show of pretending for all the world that the sometimes mind-numbing content and grating voices on children's television were something he relished.

John and Sammy watched several tolerable-enough programs back to back. During commercials, Sammy would get hyper at the mere mention of sugary breakfast cereals, get up, and start bouncing on the bed. With nearly every toy commercial that wasn't pink and princess-y, Sammy would freeze and his jaw would drop as he watched the display, turning to John the second each ad was over, declaring the last toy was stupid and THIS toy was the one he wanted. John would listen to his pleas, smile, and say, "Maybe for Christmas, kiddo."

During the last few minutes of Sesame Street, John realized that it had been awhile since Sammy had chanted letters or numbers along with the puppets, and hadn't acted at all scared when The Count turned up onscreen. He looked down to see that the boy curled into his side was sound asleep and drooling on his flannel shirt. John checked his watch, realizing Sammy was right on time for his nap. John eased out from beneath Sammy, careful not to wake him. He pulled the blanket up over his youngest and lightly ran a hand over his curly hair.

With Sammy asleep, John saw an opportunity to grab a shower and shave. He had planned on washing up that morning while the boys ate breakfast, but that plan had been thwarted when Sammy had decided to dump his bowl of Cheerios over his head and John had spent half an hour bathing a toddler instead.

John stepped into the adjacent bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear Sammy in case he woke up and wondered where he went. He showered, shaved, dressed, and stepped out of the bathroom, scrubbing a white towel over his still-dripping hair.

John laid the towel over his shoulders and turned to the bed—which was empty. "Sammy?" he said sharply, pivoting around the small motel room, where his youngest son was nowhere in sight. "Sammy!" he called again, more urgently, his heart racing. Where was he? His mind immediately jumped to every worst case scenario imaginable for a hunter/parent—could he have gotten out of the room somehow? Had he just been playing at being okay with Dean being at school and had gone off looking for him? Had something or someone else gotten in? Had he been taken by a supernatural entity? Vanished into thin air? He had heard of stranger things happening...

"Sammy!"

A small head poked up over the opposite side of the bed, and John instantly felt himself relaxing as relief flooded through him. He moved around to the other side of the room, his heart still pounding against his rib cage. He swallowed. "What're you doing, pal? You didn't fall out of bed again, did you?"

"Coloring," Sammy responded, laying back down on his stomach, knees bent in the air. Sammy propped himself up on his elbows, grabbed a red crayon and furiously scribbled on a piece of loose-leaf paper.

John spotted a black permanent marker laying a few inches away from Sammy, which his son had used to cast darkness over his land of scribbles. He bent down in front of the toddler, holding up the marker. "Sammy, did you take this from Daddy's bag?"

"Noooo," Sammy drawled, his innocent, offhanded tone almost making John believe him.

John sighed, slipping the marker into his pocket. "I don't want you going through my bag anymore, Sammy. Okay?"

"Okay," said Sammy, sticking out his tongue in concentration as he pressed down with a yellow crayon so hard that it snapped in half.

"Did you take anything else?"

Sammy shook his head, his hair swishing with the movement. John surveyed Sammy's surroundings—army men, crayons, crumpled and discarded attempts at doodles—nothing out of place. He gripped Sammy's ankles and the kid kept on coloring as John lifted the lower half of his body up to check that he wasn't laying on top of anything to hide it from him. He searched the boy's pockets, and, finding nothing but lint, decided to believe the toddler. John straightened up and asked, "What d'you want for lunch, Sammy?"

"Macencheese," Sammy responded, not looking up from his paper.

"Are you actually gonna eat it this time?"

"Yes," Sammy said, "I eat it all."

"Fine," John relented, wishing the kid had asked for something simpler, like a PB&J sandwich. But that usually went to waste, too; Sammy ate like a bird, and John had no clue what it was kids had against crust. He moved over to the kitchenette to prepare one of the few meals he knew how to make. He pulled the blue box of macaroni from the single overhead counter, put a pot of water on the dinky burner, and retrieved the milk and butter from the mini-fridge. This time, he even remembered to add the cheese flavoring after he drained the noodles.

When he'd finished making Sammy's lunch and called for him, Sammy came running, holding his finished drawing in his hands. Sammy tripped over the rug in his haste, and John helped him to his feet. "Whoa, buddy..."

"Look, Daddy!" Sammy said proudly, thankfully unfazed by his tumble. He held up his borderline-Jackson Pollock drawing. "It's for Dean. It's a dinosaur."

"That's great, Sammy. He's gonna love it," John said, admiring the indecipherable drawing for an appropriate length of time before turning and reaching into the cutlery drawer.

Sammy turned the drawing over in his hands, admiring it from all angles. He suddenly gasped and dropped the drawing, which floated lazily to the floor. "What's wrong?" John said, turning at the sound. Sammy held up his finger, where a small red slit on his fingertip told John the boy had just got a paper cut.

"Hold on, Sammy..." John said, going over to the first aid kit on the counter and retrieving a Band-Aid. He turned to Sammy, who had his finger in his mouth, sucking on the cut. "Here, get that out of your mouth..." he tutted as he picked Sammy up, carried him over to the sink and helped the boy wash the cut clean. He set Sammy's bottom on the counter and dried off his hands with a paper towel before wrapping the Band-Aid securely around his fingertip. "I'm sorry, buddy. I know how much those things sting. But you'll start to feel better now."

Sammy nodded, blinking rapidly. John picked him up again, hugging the boy briefly before setting him in his high chair and placing the bowl of macaroni and cheese before him. John tried a bite to make sure it wasn't too hot before passing the plastic fork off to Sammy. While the toddler began picking at his lunch, ditching the fork and diving into the fluorescent orange noodles with his hands, John sat down with his deli turkey club and perused several national newspapers for leads on a hunt.

John was halfway through reading obituaries in The New York Times when he glanced sharply up at the sound of Sammy crying out in pain. He immediately got to his feet when he saw a drop of blood dribbling down Sammy's chin. Pulling down on Sammy's bottom lip, and saw that the boy had chomped himself viciously and the area was already beginning to swell.

"Good things always come in threes, huh, kiddo?" John shook his head. Sammy had had three blunders in the past five minutes alone: tripping, the paper cut, biting his lip—it had to be some sort of record.

John went for the freezer as Sammy sobbed behind him. All the ice packs he had were in the Impala, in a regretfully liquid state. He went to the mini-freezer and grabbed a bag of mixed vegetables, presumably left behind by previous occupants of the room at some point in history. He wrapped the bag in a paper towel and held it up to Sammy's lip to ice it as tears rolled down his round cheeks. In time, Sammy's cries faded to soft whimpers and he suddenly became fascinated with playing with the bag of flash-frozen veggies.

While Sammy played with his peas and carrots, John grabbed a baby-wipe from the dresser-turned-changing table and cleaned up Sammy's hands and face, being careful not to douse his bottom lip. He let Sammy loose from his high chair to go play with his new toy while he took care of the lunch mess.

John glanced at his watch; they still had a couple of hours to kill before they had to be at the school, and they had exhausted all there was to do in the motel room without Dean, the main source of entertainment for both of them.

"Uh-oh!"

John looked up just in time to see the bag in Sammy's hands rip in two, the contents exploding out in every direction. Sammy dropped the now empty bag, picking up a bit of semi-thawed carrot cube and sticking it in his mouth.

"No, Sammy," said John, striding forward and holding out his palm and considering the curiosity of being a parent trying to stop his kid from eating vegetables. "That carrot's old and probably doesn't taste too good. Plus, that floor's filthy. Spit it out."

Sammy seemed to agree with John's consensus for once, for he pulled a face and spat out the freezer-burned carrot into John's hand. "Yucky," he agreed.

"If you still want carrots, we'll pick some up at the store later. Okay, kiddo?" said John, going over and retrieving the trash can from beneath the sink. With Sammy's help, he scooped up the mixed freezer-burned vegetable chunks and threw them away. With the mess cleared up, John asked Sammy, "Before we go to the store, what d'you say we go to that park that has the lake and the trail?"

"Doggies?" Sammy inquired hopefully, cocking his head to one side.

"Yeah, there'll probably be some dogs there," said John, aware of his son's obsession with the hairy, orifice-sniffing, slobbering creatures. Dogs had been ruined for John after seeing a hell-hound kill a man and learning about spectral black dogs, but Sammy was still enamored by them.

"Okay!" said Sam keenly, tugging on John's hand, leaning forward with all his might. "Let's go!"

"I guess we're going to the park," John said with bemusement, snagging his shoulder bag as he allowed himself to be dragged towards the door.

...


	2. The Park

It was a bright, clear, beautiful day late summer afternoon, and the park was bustling with activity. The green-tinged lake was a host to several remote-controlled hydroplanes, paddle boats, fishermen, and ducks fighting over bread crumbs. The cement perimeter of the lake was populated by walkers, joggers, rollerskaters, young couples pushing strollers, vendors, and, to Sammy's delight, dog walkers.

John walked the concrete strip around the lake with Sammy tottering along beside him, holding his hand. The little boy was relatively content considering the mild traumas he had been through that day, with a gleeful smile plastered across his face from John telling him that they would soon be picking up Dean.

A woman with a Jack Russell terrier straining at his leash walked towards them. Sammy stopped dead in his tracks. "Doggy!" he waved. The terrier sniffed the air hopefully, trying with all his might to reach Sammy, who let go of John's hand to meet the dog halfway. Sammy extended his hand, reaching for the dog's wriggling nose.

"Sammy," John reprimanded sharply, "What did I tell you about touching dogs without the owner's permission?"

"Oh, it's fine!" said the woman holding the leash, "Max is a sweetheart. He's never bitten anyone, and he's great with kids."

"I can pet him?" Sammy asked, looking up at his Dad pleadingly.

"Sure, buddy," said John, exchanging a small smile with the dog's owner. Max looked positively harmless compared to some of the dogs he had researched; it didn't have glowing red eyes, for one thing.

Sammy cupped the dog's head in both his hands, touching his nose to the dog's cold, wet one. The terrier licked Sammy's cheek, causing him to break into a fit of giggles. He rubbed his hand along the dog's head and down its back, stroking the short, coarse hair. The dog panted happily, wagging its short tail. "He likes me, Daddy!" the dog reared up on its hind legs, wrapped its front paws around Sammy's middle, and began to make thrusting, gyrating motions against Sammy's leg. "Look, he's playing with me!"

"He sure is," said John, grimacing in disgust. He was barely restraining himself from ripping the dog off Sammy by its collar and give it a good punt for violating his son, but luckily his owner was quick on the draw.

"Max, no!" the woman reprimanded, tugging on Max's collar and yanking him off Sammy, giving him a sharp tap on the snout. "I'm so sorry about that. You know dogs—anything that holds still long enough..."

"Well, we'd better keep moving," said John, gripping Sammy's hand again, inclining his head towards the woman. "Have a good day, Ma'am...Max," he said, fixing the small canine with a glower of ill-contempt that made him cower and whine.

John took off briskly with Sammy in tow without a backward glance. "I wanna play with the doggy!" Sammy whined, looking over his shoulder.

"No, Sammy. You are done playing with Max," said John firmly. "We're going to keep walking."

Sammy huffed, rooting his feet stubbornly in the ground, refusing to take another step. He twisted away from John and ran to a green-painted park bench, laying his head across the seat despairingly. John was exhausted and decided to take a rest on the bench beside Sammy instead of trying to enforce his will over the stubborn two-year-old. He sat and people-watched while he let Sammy have his sulk.

A moment later, Sammy wailed, "Stuck!"

"What?" John turned to look down at Sammy, who somehow seemed to be struggling to raise his head from the bench. When he did, he saw a long thin, goopey strand of pink extending from the park seat to Sammy's bangs. "Sticky," Sammy complained, fisting his hair. "Ewwww!"

"Oh, Sammy, baby...it's just not your day, is it?" John sighed warily, picking Sammy up and setting him on his lap to survey the damage. "Don't rub it in, kiddo, you'll make it worse," said John, gently prising Sammy's hands away from his hair. "Who the hell leaves gum on a park bench?" John shouted accusingly to a trio of passing teenagers, as if they were the culprits. What better things did they have to do when they were clearly skipping school?

Grimacing, John separated the clump of downy hair embedded in pink bubblegum. He tried to work out the sticky substance with his fingers, with Sammy wincing and whining as he unintentionally pulled some of his hair out in the process. "No! Stop!" Sammy cried, shielding his forehead with both hands. "Hurts!"

"We've got to get it out, Sammy," said John calmly. It was more gum than hair now. He sat Sammy on the bench beside him. "Close your eyes, tiger. I'll have the gum out before you know it." Lip quivering, Sammy shut his eyes tight, covering them with his hands. John pulled a switch blade from his belt and hacked off the offending chunk of gummied hair, replacing the knife in its holder. He tousled the front of Sammy's bangs, hoping to make the gap less noticeable. "There. All gone."

Sammy explored his bangs, smiling in relief. "All gone," he agreed. Able to change channels quicker than a TV remote (or stubbornly dwell on a station as his mood suited him), Sammy's mouth suddenly went round, pointing at something in front of them. "Duck!"

"It sure is," said John, grateful for the distraction to keep Sammy from dwelling on his bad haircut. He watched with Sammy as the white duck with the orange bill wandered up to the bench, looking at them expectantly. "I think it wants us to feed him, Sammy."

"We have food for him?" the little boy inquired.

"Let's see." John reached into a side pocket of his bag, where he kept snacks for the boys, as at least one of his kids was always hungry at any given time. He produced a packet of peanut butter crackers, ripped open the plastic and handed one to Sammy. "Here, break off pieces for him." The toddler took a bite of the cracker before delightedly crumbling the rest up in his fists and dropping all the pieces on the ground. The duck dived forward eagerly, gobbling up the cracker crumbs.

"He likes it!" Sammy exclaimed happily, smiling up at John. As Sammy was crumbling another cracker in his fist, a bicyclist rode past them, startling the duck and sending it flapping off, quacking indignantly. Sammy hopped down from the bench and chased after the waddling duck, throwing crumbs at it, which bounced off its sleek, waterproof back. "Come back, ducky!"

John was already on his feet and easily overtaking the boy when he saw Sammy trip over a fallen tree branch and come crashing down, hard.

"Sammy!" John was at Sammy's side in an instant, scooping the stunned boy up into his arms. Sammy's palms, knees, and chin were all scratched up from the concrete. John held the boy close as he cried again, the road rash stinging fiercely.

"It's just not your day, is it, kiddo?" said John, rocking Sammy back and forth gently. He carried his child back over to the bench, where he cleaned the bits of rock and dirt from Sammy's scrapes, putting bandages on over the burns. John tucked Sammy's head under his chin and clutched his sobbing child, mentally counting all the mishaps and minor accidents Sammy had experienced that day, all of which he had been helpless to prevent. There was nothing John hated more than feeling like he couldn't protect his children from harm, whether it was from supernatural beings or road burns. He had sworn to Dean that he would look out for Sammy; that he wouldn't let anything hurt him. And so far, he was failing miserably. His stomach twisted with guilt. Sammy never seemed this accident-prone when Dean was around...

"Shhh," John whispered soothingly into Sammy's ear, as he began to cry himself out, fists still grabbing handfuls of John's t-shirt, which he was using to dry his tears with. "Let's get out of here, buddy. We've got to go to the grocery store, and then we're going to get Dean."

"Dean?" Sammy sniffled hopefully. Despite all the minor tragedies Sammy had endured that morning, he smiled at the thought of reuniting with his big brother.

"Yep. I'll bet he's gonna be real happy to see you, Sammy," said John standing and lifting Sammy to his shoulders, sparing the boy from having to walk with his poor, scraped knees. He gripped Sammy around his ankles, feeling his fingers tangle in his hair to hold on. As John was making his way up the rolling hill to the parking lot, the grass brown, dead, and crunchy underfoot from the summer heat, he heard a THUNK above his head, followed by a yelp from Sammy.

A split second later, he saw an orange frisbee fall down near his feet. John grit his teeth. "You have GOT to be kidding me!" Sammy began howling. John lowered the boy off his shoulders, looking imploringly into his eyes. "Where'd you get hit?" Sammy's shaking hand went to the back of his head, touching it gingerly as he bawled into his father's shoulder, clinging to his t-shirt. John examined the bump that was already forming and swore under his breath, looking around for something to kill—ideally, the culprit.

"Dude!" a college-aged kid with a careless trust fund smirk called and waved, stopping about ten yards away from them. "Hey, Pops, can we have our frisbee back?"

John cast a murderous glance at the unapologetic jackass in the football letterman's jacket who couldn't even bother to warn someone when they were in the line of fire. He bent down to retrieve the frisbee. "No, you can't," with an easy flick of his wrist, the frisbee soared up and away, landing a ways out into the lake. "You just hit my kid. What you can do is get out of here before I kick your ass."

The jock's pride wouldn't allow him to back down so easily and risk losing face in front of his frat brothers. He unwisely advanced towards the hunter, who lifted up the hem of his jacket just enough to show he was packing. The kid stopped in his tracks, realizing that John Winchester was most definitely not a man to be trifled with. He put up his hands, backing away slowly. "Okay, dude. Just chill."

John glowered until the kid went back and rejoined his frat brothers, and saw several dirty looks shot at him, but he really couldn't care less. He still had half a mind to go over there and beat the kid to a bloody pulp on principle, but Sammy's cries of misery pushed his vengeful thoughts to the back of his head.

"You alright, Sammy?" John asked anxiously, brushing Sammy's uneven bangs back from his eyes, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. "I'm so sorry, little man. This was supposed to be fun..."

"W-w-want D-Dean!" Sammy said between shuddering gasps.

"I know, pal." He rubbed Sammy's back. "It's almost time to get Dean. Let's get out of here."

Sammy was a disaster-magnet today, and John couldn't wait to end their ill-fated trip to the park. He cast one last glance to where the frat boys had been hanging out, and saw they were gone. Maybe those punks weren't so stupid after all.

They reached the parking lot, where the sun was beating down, baking the black asphalt and scorching the air. John could feel his t-shirt sticking to his back, a mist of sweat accumulated above his lip and on his brow. Whether Sammy's face was pink from the heat, crying, or both, it was impossible to tell. Needless to say, the ice cream van strategically parked near the dual entrance/exit was a welcome sight, and the perfect way to both cheer Sammy up and cool him down.

John bought a waffle cone with a scoop of Rocky Road for himself, and a scoop of blue bubblegum for Sammy (pink bubblegum was out of the question after the day's events.)

"Here you go, buddy," said John, carefully handing Sammy his cone. John carried Sammy to the Impala as the little boy happily licked his ice cream, staining half his face blue. Just as they reached the car, Sammy's ice cream was rapidly losing its viscosity in the summer sun, and a vigorous thrust from his tongue sent the whole scoop slipping over the edge of the cone, where it slid down Sammy's t-shirt and John's forearm before going splat on the hot sidewalk. Several passing ants instantly swarmed on the melting, sticky blue mess. This tragedy seemed greatest of all to Sammy, who let out such a crestfallen, mournful cry that sounded like it was wrenched from the depths of his soul.

John's heart broke for Sammy; Sammy just didn't seem to be able to catch a break today, taking one hit after another. It was like the very universe was conspiring against him to make sure his baby boy had a bad day. Had his son somehow done something terrible enough to evoke this much negative karma? If he hadn't been watching Sammy all day, he would have assumed the kid had broken a mirror and tried to hide it, or had a hex bag planted on him, or that somewhere a voodoo priestess had made a doll of his likeness. Or maybe he had never realized just how much of a role Dean played in looking out for Sammy. John felt like he was being attentive and watchful with the boy, and accidents just kept on happening regardless.

John consoled Sammy by offering him his own ice cream cone.

Sammy looked at John uncertainly through tear-filled eyes. "It's all yours, kiddo," said John, smiling; the insignificant sacrifice was really the least he could do after the hellish day the toddler was having.

John sank down to sit on the curb, allowing Sammy to finish his treat outside; there was no way he was going to let the rapidly melting treat stain the Impala's upholstery. John held Sammy and the ice cream cone, as Sammy happily licked the melting mound, only pausing to hold his head and wait for a brain freeze or two to pass.

When Sammy was done munching on the waffle cone, John shifted Sammy's car seat out of the way and put down a towel across the backseat before laying the sticky toddler across it. He crawled into the backseat of the stifling hot car beside Sammy, and set about the arduous task of getting his son cleaned up while the boy licked the last remnants of the Rocky Road ice cream from his fingers. Midway through changing Sammy, John reached into his bag for a fresh diaper and a change of clothes for the boy and found that they were missing and replaced with Sammy's favorite toys. It seemed Sammy had taken things from John's bag, after all—but nothing that wasn't already technically his.

"Sammy," John said, holding up a plastic action figure of Optimus Prime. "Did you take all your clothes and diapers out of my bag to make room for your toys again?"

Sammy's sheepish smile was enough of a response for John, as he took his fingers out of his mouth to reach out for his toy. Despite being cross at the boy for the switch he had made, John relented and handed Sammy his favorite toy, knowing he was in a fragile and delicate state and not keen for the waterworks to start up again so soon.

"No clean clothes, no diapers, no time to run home before we get Dean," said John, pulling Sammy's shorts back up from around his ankles, not about to put a dirty diaper back on the boy. "Looks like you're out of luck, bud. Until we get to the store and pick up some more Huggies, I guess you're going commando, kiddo." He strapped Sammy into his car seat. "If you feel like you've gotta go, I need you to be a big boy and hold it till we get you some more diapers, okay?"

"Okay," Sammy agreed as John used a few baby wipes (thankfully spared from Sammy's purging of all things useful in his bag) to wipe up the worst of the sticky blue mess on Sammy's hands, face, and shirt front.

John gathered up the blue-stained baby wipes, dirty diaper, and other trash accumulated by the boys from the back seat and tossed them into a garbage can a few feet away from the car. He got into the driver's seat, checking his watch before starting the car. Despite parking in the shade, the car was like an oven and he blasted the air conditioning. He slid his arms out of his jacket and turned in his seat to look at Sammy, who currently looked content despite all the mishaps he had had that day. Or maybe he had just run out of tears.

"We've only got forty minutes till we have to get Dean and we still have to go to the store. Think we can do it, buddy?"

"Yeah!" Sammy exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.

"I think so, too," John chuckled, putting the car in drive and pulling out of the parking lot.


	3. The Store

John used his free hand to shake a shopping cart free from the line of carts behind it, pushed the red plastic child's seat down and strapped Sammy in. The toddler was hyper and twitchy from his sugar rush and protested against the restraints, wanting to roam freely outside the cart. Being careful not to use the word "No" and trigger another barrage of Sammy smacking himself upside the head in retaliation, John tutted, "Sammy, you have to stay in the cart today. We're in a hurry." And with your luck today, I'm not taking any more chances, John mentally added.

Sammy sulked, pouted, and picked at the buckle around his waist, trying to wriggle free as John pushed the cart into the store, paying no heed to his son's hopeless escape attempts apart from making sure he pushed the cart out far enough in front of him so Sammy's wildly swinging feet never made contact with his nether regions. Luckily for John, Sammy almost instantly found a distraction, enamored by one of the many red and white balloons tied to the registers for the store's Back to School Sale, ceasing all protests and staring at the balloons with awe. John used the opportunity to pull the wrinkled grocery list from his back pocket, memorizing it and coming up with a tactic based on the store's floor plan to get the shopping done in plenty of time to get to the school.

Sammy remained blissfully accident-free (in more ways than one) as John picked up a box of Lucky Charms, a bag of potato chips, several cans of assorted Campbell's soups, Spaghetti-o's and Chef Boyardee, chocolate pudding packs, animal crackers, Gushers and Fruit Roll-Ups—all of the boy's favorites, as well as items they were running low on like orange juice, milk, bananas, bread, and strawberry jam.

John was mildly aware of and accustomed to the furtive looks and whispers from strangers that followed him when he was out in public with his small children. He was sure that he wasn't just imagining their curiosity, pity, and sympathy—none of which he wanted. It seemed that people could tell motherless children a mile off, and that he was an anomaly for being a single father. As if he'd wanted to be a widower, or imagined he'd ever be raising his children on his own. He hated the stigma that he was somehow a sub-par parent or incompetent just because he carried a Y on his twenty-third chromosome. He wasn't sure what exactly tipped people off that he was a single father when he still wore his wedding ring; everyone just seemed to know. Maybe they could tell that a lot of the time he was barely holding it together.

John's children were outwardly well-cared for, pending the fact of life that boys will be boys and boys loved dirt. He treated his sons with the same order and military precision in which he handled every aspect of his life, from his car to his arsenal. He ensured that they were clean and groomed. He kept Dean's hair relatively short and neat. Sammy proved to be more difficult; the kid made himself scarce at the mere mention of a haircut; John had been lucky to get him to sit still long enough to cut the gum out at the park. As bath time was already all-out warfare, John picked his battles and let Sammy keep his hair longer. He secretly liked the length, anyway. His sons clothing, although typically purchased from thrift stores, were always appropriately sized and in good repair, although it was an uphill battle keeping them in clothes that fit when they both were currently going through growth spurts. John didn't give a thought to whether or not their outfits harmonized top to bottom or were color-coordinated—which could very well be a contributing factor that tipped a lot of people off that he was flying solo.

The one thing John Winchester didn't want to give anyone the impression of (apart from their nomadic hunting lifestyle) was that he was in any way incapable of caring for his children just because he didn't have a wife. After Mary died, members of her extended family and their friends all seemed to think John had become unhinged and was incapable of looking after his sons on his own. Mary's Uncle Jacob had gone so far as to try to "take the boys off [his] hands" after the fire, thinking it would be some sort of relief to him. The truth was that Dean and Sammy were his lifeline, his purpose for carrying on—and he knew losing them would kill him. Even then, when he still was blind to the evil lurking in the darkness, he knew no one could protect his children like he could. Predictably, John vehemently turned down Jacob's offer and ignored all the naysayers who thought he wasn't up to the task of raising his sons alone, determined to prove them all wrong.

So today, with Sammy looking like Pigpen despite having bathed that morning and a far cry from the relatively tidy looking boy he usually was, John felt the usual stares intensify into outright glares of scornful suspicion. He did his best to ignore the fragmented whispered remarks he heard about the uncharacteristically neglectful state of Sammy, but something inside him snapped when he heard a woman in a business suit near him mutter to her friend, "Look at that little boy—look at his shirt. And his hair! Seriously, who brings their kid out in public looking like that? I'd be embarrassed if I were him, not even being able to take care of my own kid..."

The last remark touched a nerve. John turned around to face her, and the woman looked startled and guilty that she had been speaking loud enough for him to hear. "You got kids, Ma'am?"

The woman swallowed, her eyes not meeting his. "No. I don't."

"Then you'd do well to keep your opinions to yourself," said John bluntly, turning the cart sharply and going down another aisle containing the baby supplies, still fuming as his eyes scanned the shelf for diapers in Sammy's size. But all he could see was red.

"Excuse me," a woman's voice said. John moved aside slightly to allow her to reach for a pack of pull-ups. John cast a brief glance at the woman, who looked to be in her early thirties like himself. She had a little girl with pigtails sitting in her shopping cart, who he estimated to be about three. "Thanks," the woman said as she deposited the pull-ups in the packed cart on top of some cauliflower. She noticed Sammy staring at her and smiled endearingly at his messy t-shirt, bandaged chin and lopsided haircut. John could tell from her knowing expression that Sammy's haphazard appearance was a sight not unfamiliar to her. At last—an ally. "Hi, sweetie!" the woman acknowledged Sammy.

"Hi!" said Sammy, waving happily. "I no wear diaper!" Sammy moved to pluck at the waistband of his shorts. "See?"

"No, buddy—she doesn't need to see," said John, catching Sammy by the wrist. He glanced apologetically at the other parent. "Sorry."

"They're all exhibitionists at that age, aren't they?" the woman said with a laugh. John decided that it was nice not to feel like someone was quietly judging him for once. She added in a lilting voice, "Still, a bit young to be potty-training, isn't he?"

"We ran out," John simplified, figuring it was a less long-winded explanation than telling her about how his toddler had swapped out his diapers for toys. He sighed wearily. "It's just been one of those days."

"I've been there," she responded sympathetically, before checking her watch. "Well, I'd better get going. Amelia has a play date in half an hour. Have a good day!"

"You too, Ma'am," John inclined his head as the woman pushed her cart past him, with Sam and Amelia briefly reaching out to touch fingers as she passed. John was surprised at the small vote of confidence he'd received from a brief encounter with another parent who had "been there", and wondered how many of the critics he'd met were childless themselves. It was easy to judge someone when you've never walked a mile in their shoes, and the road John found himself on was an unexpected detour from his original plan, on a road that was untraveled, treacherous, and seemingly endless.

John located the diapers for Sammy, hoping it would be enough to get by until he got some more cash together; those things were expensive. Often a good night of hustling pool would pay for food and his children's various needs for a week at most. He pushed the cart down the aisle, looking down when he heard a low, back-of-the-throat growl emitting from the cart. He looked down to see Sammy with his teeth bared in a convincing show of ferocity.

John was well-aware that frequently and without warning, his imaginative toddler would transform from little boy into a member of the animal kingdom, complete with sound effects, mannerisms, and an inability to speak English. "Which animal are you today, kiddo?" Sammy growled louder in response, accompanied by a hiss. "A tiger?" John guessed. Sammy made an offended growl "Oh. Sorry—a lion."

Sammy nodded happily, making a purring sound deep in his throat. "Let's hear your best roar then, kiddo." Sammy took a deep, dramatic breath, raised his hands and flexed his fingers like claws, and opened his mouth wide, letting out his best impression of a lion's roar. "That's pretty scary, Sammy. If MGM ever hears you old Leo's gonna get put into retirement." Sammy had no clue what reference John had made, but smiled proudly regardless because his Daddy said he was scary, and Dean always said Daddy wasn't afraid of anything.

John turned around the end cap, stopping short when a hunched-over little old lady came around the other corner at the same time, colliding her cart into the front of his. "Pardon me!" the old woman said apologetically, righting her cart. She took off her floral-framed glasses and wiped them on her cardigan. "I didn't see you there!"

"It's no bother, Ma'am," said John politely.

The elderly woman spotted Sammy in the front of his cart and stepped forward to get a closer look at him, beaming at the toddler. She reached out and stereotypically pinched his round little cheek until it turned pink. "Oh, if he isn't just the sweetest little—"

"GrrrrROARRRR!" The little old lady let out a startled cry, releasing Sammy's cheek as if she'd received an electrical shock.

"Oh my!" she gasped, clutching her heart. "I think he just growled at me!"

John shook his head, biting back his laughter. It seemed Sammy had graduated from scaring himself with his animal imitations in a mirror to frightening little old ladies. "He's a lion," he said, by way of explanation.

"Well," said the woman breathlessly, reaching into her twill purse. "He's an excellent lion—very convincing. It's good to see a child with such a vibrant imagination...I think I might have something for him in here..." she pulled a butterscotch hard candy wrapped in crinkly plastic out of her bag and untwisted one end with stiff, arthritic hands, extending the partially unwrapped candy out towards Sammy.

"Thank you, Ma'am. He can have it later," said John, intercepting the potential choking hazard and storing it safely in his breast pocket, afraid she might offer Sammy something else if he told her he was too young for hard candy.

"Oh yes. I don't want to be spoiling his supper," the little old lady chuckled good-naturedly. John thanked her and bid her a good day before returning to his grocery shopping with Sammy hissing and spitting at being denied candy and earning them strange and amused looks from passerby's.

Navigating through the frozen food aisle, Sammy forgot to be a lion and began excitedly bouncing up and down in his barred metal seat. "Cawots!"

"That's right, kiddo," said John, adding a bag of frozen vegetables to the cart, remembering the promise he'd made Sammy to buy some carrots that were edible. If only he could get Dean to eat them, too...

Having checked off every item on the list as well as accumulating a few items he hadn't planned on buying, John went to check-out and picked the cashier with the shortest line, all the while keeping an anxious eye on his wristwatch.

As the customer two people ahead of him gathered up her bags and left, the line inched up and when he looked down to check on Sammy, he saw that his child was wearing an expression of absolute abject terror; his eyes wide as saucers, his mouth open in a silent scream, his fists clenching the metal bar in front of him.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" asked John, wondering what on Earth could be making Sammy look so distraught now. Sammy raised a trembling finger and pointed at something behind John, finally unfreezing enough to emit a frightened whimper. "Daddy! Make it go away!"

John whirled around to see where Sammy was pointing, and found himself face-to-face with a bulbous red nose, a painted mask of vibrant make-up, frizzy red wig, polka dot jumpsuit and oversized-shoes—a clown. Sammy's biggest fear had literally strolled right up to him, on what was easily one of the worst days the kid had ever had. Even more infuriating, John had turned around just in time to see the clown's face turn from a distorted and taunting gurn to an innocent, blank stare. Oh, if this son of a bitch had been teasing his kid...

"Hey, Bonzo, d'you think you can go to another line?" John asked, bluntly dispersing with any niceties.

"Why?" the clown demanded, "You got a problem with clowns or something, pal?"

"Yeah, I do, actually," said John, using his considerable height and bulk for intimidation. "Mostly because you're freaking out my kid."

The clown cleared his throat with a hacking sound, polluting the air around him with his halitosis breath. "Look, buddy, I just finished doing a party for a bunch of bratty four year olds. Do you always change before you come home from work? Clowns gotta shop too, you know. "

John stole a glance into the clown's shopping cart: booze, cigarettes, a box of microwavable burritos and magazines wrapped in gray plastic. He raised an eyebrow. Sammy cried, reaching out for John's arm and hiding his face in his sleeve. "Just make this easy for both of us and pick another line, okay?"

The clown crossed his arms indignantly. "No-kay. It's a free country, pal. Why don't you move?"

"I'm next in line," said John tersely.

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to beat rush hour," said the clown. "Hey pal, looks like your kid's just sprung a leak!"

"Dammit," John muttered, looking down to see the dark spot growing on the front of Sammy's jeans, casting a scathing look at the clown. He knew it had been unrealistic to ask Sammy to hold it in when toilet-training was still an alien concept. He had a good mind to tear the clown a new one on principle, just like he'd wanted to do to that frat kid in the park. But John restrained his borderline-homicidal rage, knowing he only had twenty minutes until he had to pick up Dean. Getting arrested for assault right now was not ideal, so he fought to keep his precarious and dwindling store of patience in check.

"Here, look—I know just what'll cheer the kid up," The clown squeezed the end of his red plastic nose. The loud HONK made Sammy cower, cover his ears and shut his eyes tight, bringing his cries up another decibel. Every cashier and customer in the vicinity was now staring at the spectacle. John felt his urge to kill rising.

"Or maybe—" the clown reached behind his back, producing a bouquet of multi-colored plastic flowers and holding them out to Sammy, who looked at the flowers as if they were a stick of dynamite. "Come on, kid—take them!"

"What part of 'my kid hates clowns' don't you understand?" John stepped between his distressed son and the clown, his broad shoulders effectively blocking him from Sammy's view. "You'd better shove those flowers back up your ass before I do it myself." The clown squeezed the middle of his pocket flower in response, squirting a stream of water onto John's chin and shirt front.

"Whoops!" the clown pointed and laughed with his white-gloved hand. "I just have no control over this thing! You've got something on your chin, riiiight there..."

The ex-Marine wiped the water off his chin with the back of his hand. He'd had as much crap from people today as he could take and this had been the straw that broke the dromedary: the clown was going down. John was winding his arm up to deliver a knockout blow to the clown's stupid painted mug when a small mousy man stepped awkwardly up to them, leaning back enough to be out of the line of fire if John did let his fist fly.

"Is there a problem here?" the manager asked, trying to draw himself up to look bigger than he was.

A much bolder store security guard was now standing between the two men as well. John reluctantly lowered his fist.

"Don't know what you're talking about. It's this guy's been causing problems," the clown feigned innocence. The security guard looked from John's wet shirt (level with the squirting flower on the clown's lapel) to the screaming child in the shopping cart and seemed to put the pieces together. "Come on, pal," he said to the clown, pointing. "They just opened a register over there. Hey, think you can do my daughter's birthday party tomorrow?"

John breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the clown steer his cart of vices around and make his way for register twelve, telling his rates to the security guard. John cast a fake apologetic glance at the manager before he left as well, watching the clown go with a feeling of relief mingled with disappointment, still wanting payback in the form of a deadbeat clown with no front teeth. He needed someone to punish for all the calamities that had happened to Sammy that day, and that bastard would have been the perfect outlet.

John felt a tug on his sleeve and saw Sammy's big green eyes gazing beseechingly up at him, swimming with tears. "Daddy?"

Sammy. There was only one other voice in the world that could have possibly reached him at that moment. John felt the white hot rage inside him recede enough to attend to his terrified child. He ran his hand soothingly over Sammy's hair, the action in turn calming him, making the angry pounding in his head fade to a dull throb.

"It gone, Daddy?" Sammy sniffled, leaning into his touch as John's large calloused hand caressed the side of his face.

"Yeah, Sammy," John said softly. "It's gone."

"Next in line," the cashier called him forward. John gratefully pushed the cart forward and began loading the groceries onto the conveyor belt.

"Cute kid," the cashier's smile was only slightly strained as she scanned the Snack Packs, politely ignoring Sammy's tear-streaked face, disheveled appearance and whiff of a potty accident, and he appreciated it. Along with the criticisms, he got his fair share of strangers telling him his children were cute, adorable, the spitting image of him, etc. However, these comments were nearly always followed with them looking around and asking, "Where's their mother?" as if she was just out of eye sight.

"Thanks," John said gruffly as he reached for his wallet. "He's having a bit of a rough day."

The cashier saw Sammy watching one of the red balloons dancing above his head. She took a pair of scissors and cut one of the red balloons free, tying the blue ribbon loosely around Sammy's little round wrist. The little boy beamed, showing off his pearly white baby teeth. "Here you go, cutie." She looked up at John, realizing in an afterthought it would have been appropriate to ask him for permission first. "It's okay he has that, right?"

"Sure is," John smiled gratefully. "Besides, I defy you to try to take it away from him now."

Sammy happily waved his fist, yanking on the balloon's string, delighting in the way it bobbed up and down as he flapped his arm.

The cashier finished ringing up the items and gave John his total, which he paid in cash that smelled vaguely like a pool hall. "Have a good day, Sir."

"You too," John responded, stuffing his change and receipt into his wallet.

The bag boy loaded the groceries back into the cart and obligatorily asked, "Do you need help out today, Sir?"

"No, thanks," John answered. "Hey, there wouldn't happen to be a changing table in the men's restroom, would there?"

"No, sorry," the kid shook his overlong hair out of his eyes. "Just in the woman's."

"Figures," John muttered, pushing his cart towards the exit. He knew the answer before he'd even asked; it was the same one he'd received in every public place across the country, hoping there was somewhere progressive enough to provide diaper-changing facilities for men, as well. Did society seriously believe women were the only ones who ever had to change a baby? For now, he'd continue to improvise; the back seat of the Impala would have to do.

The trunk was full, so John loaded the groceries into the front passenger seat, save for the brand name knockoff diapers. He lifted Sammy out of the cart, carrying him in an awkward side-hold to avoid contact with his wet shorts. As John ducked his head and passed Sammy through the passenger door, the ribbon around his wrist came loose and the balloon was blown away by a gust of hot summer air.

"Balloon!" Sammy shrieked. John looked to see if he could drag the escaped balloon back to Earth, but it was already twenty feet above their heads and climbing fast, swept away on a sudden breeze.

Great. Just great, John cursed, preparing himself for yet another barrage of crying. He didn't have time to cater to another one of Sammy's meltdowns or they would be late to get Dean. It'd have to be tough love this time. "Sorry, kiddo," John said, forcing Sammy to lay down on the towel, one hand pinning his chest down as Sammy twisted and turned and screamed for his lost balloon. "Go get it, Daddy!"

Ignoring his son's unreasonable demands, John removed Sammy's soiled shorts, cleaned him up and stuck a fresh diaper on him, carrying Sammy over to the trunk and holding the squirming child with one hand as he dug through the laundry bag for anything on the higher end of the cleanliness spectrum to make him look halfway decent; almost anything had to be better than what Sammy was currently wearing. He didn't have time to afford being picky, settling on a pair of shorts with a few washable marker scribbles on them and a striped t-shirt with a small brown smear near the collar that he was brave enough to find out was chocolate.

John wrestled Sammy out of his sticky, filthy monster truck t-shirt. Clothing Sammy was like trying to dress an octopus—he became all limbs, and stubborn and wriggly limbs at that. Sammy cried and fought him every step of the way, but he finally got him dressed and strapped into his car seat. With no time to return the shopping cart, he pushed it roughly against the curb and got in the driver's seat. He checked his watch—less than ten minutes till school gets out. If he made every green light between here and the school, he just might make it in time. He knew Dean was likely to worry himself sick if they were so much as a minute late.

Sammy screamed bloody murder and kicked his legs, insisting John go get his balloon. The kid was a broken record, chanting, "Get balloon! Get balloon! GET BALLOON!" John reached into the bag of groceries, retrieving the box of animal crackers, holding out a few of Sammy's favorite snacks as a distraction. "Little bites, dude."

Sammy stopped crying and stared long and hard at the animal-shaped cookies in John's open palm. Then he screamed and slapped the crackers out of John's hand. "NO!"

John closed his eyes and prayed for strength. "Suit yourself," he scowled, facing forward and starting the car. He let Sammy's bratty behavior slide without reprimand this time, considering numerous circumstances that could be contributing to his current behavior.

John had to bite back his road rage as he spent close to three minutes sitting at a red light at a crowded intersection, listening to Sammy making an unholy racket, smacking the plastic sides of his car seat and letting out an almost continuous scream, only pausing when he had to take a breath. John savored those few seconds, cringing and gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white when the screaming resumed, setting his teeth on edge and his ears ringing. He couldn't wait to get Dean back; he had a gift for calming Sammy down that John coveted.

When the stoplight finally turned green, the car in front of them seemed intent on sitting through it, possibly because the driver had fallen asleep waiting for the light to change. John blared his horn and the car finally moved. "Thank you!" he yelled in exasperation, slapping the steering wheel as the line began to move and he gunned it through the intersection, muttering words that he was glad Sammy couldn't hear over himself.

To John's immense relief, Sammy did eventually stopped screaming—he wouldn't be surprised if the boy had lost his voice by now. He hoped the day had tired him out enough that Sammy would willingly take another nap after they picked up Dean.

"We're almost at the school, Sammy," John said, knowing this would cheer Sammy up. "Time to get Dean."

When John heard no sound of jubilation from the backseat, he wondered if perhaps Sammy had fallen asleep already.

"Sammy?" John's eyes flitted to the rear view mirror and his blood ran cold. "SAMMY!" he swerved the Impala off the road and hard onto the shoulder. He threw the car into park, flung open his door and vaulted into the backseat beside his young son, who was clutching at his throat, his mouth open but with no sound coming out, his eyes wide and scared.

Panic and fear threatened to overwhelm him, but John forced it down, allowing his instincts and training to kick in. He unstrapped Sam from his car seat and set the choking boy on his lap and reassured himself with the fact that he had successfully done this before when Dean was this age and the wheel on one of his toy trucks had come loose. He tried not to dwell on the fact his son was slowly turning blue as he placed an arm diagonally across Sam's chest, leaned him forward and firmly forced the heel of his hand between the boy's shoulder blades. He repeated the action multiple times, but it did nothing to dislodge whatever the obstruction was in Sammy's airway.

When that didn't work, John exited the car and kneeled on the ground, placing Sammy in front of him, sitting him on his bent leg. He put two fingers just above Sammy's belly button and made a fist with his other hand, making rapid, upward thrusts into the boy's abdomen. After five attempts, a butterscotch candy shot out his mouth and plopped onto the road. The little boy began to cough, but once again was breathing, terrified tears rolling down his cheeks. John got Sammy to open his mouth, checking to be sure his airway was clear. Sammy's breathing returned to normal and his coloring was already drastically improving.

John hugged Sammy fiercely, forcing the top of his head under his chin and trying not to think what might have happened if he hadn't glanced in the mirror when he had...

"You okay, buddy?" John asked thickly, his face buried in Sammy's hair. Sammy nodded his head in response, clinging harder than ever to his father as John ran his hand comfortingly up and down his back. John patted his pocket, and found the conclusion he'd arrived at to be correct—Sammy must have somehow snuck the hard candy from the old lady out of his pocket without him noticing—probably when he'd been busy digging through the laundry bag whilst holding him.

Remembering he still had to pick up Dean and was no doubt already late because of their emergency, John kissed Sammy's forehead and reluctantly relinquished his hold, strapping him back in his car seat. Still rattled, John had to resist the urge to watch Sammy in his rear view the whole way to the school instead of the road to make sure he was okay. The boy looked tired, drained, and was very quiet—but at least he was breathing normally.

It had truly been the day from hell. John couldn't believe the sheer amount of minor catastrophes that had happened to his youngest, and sincerely hoped it wouldn't be an indicator of how things were going to be every day, or he'd have to reconsider having Dean home-schooled somehow, something that would be nearly impossible to accommodate with his lifestyle. He doubted whether he'd even be qualified to teach anything apart from weapons safety, anyway.

Naturally, John blamed himself for everything that had happened to Sammy today. He was the father. Ultimately, it was his job to protect his kids from everything, despite the high regard he held Dean in for helping to keep Sammy safe. Sammy had almost choked to death under his watchful eye, had managed to sneak a harmful object off him without him noticing. John had always thought he'd been on the overprotective side of the parenting spectrum. Now, he wasn't so sure. His confidence in his abilities as a father had been shaken to the core—he felt like an utter failure. He'd promised Dean he wouldn't let anything bad happen to Sammy. He'd let him down. Without Dean's help, Sammy had been hurt under his watch, almost grievously so. And for that, John was ashamed.

John parked across the street from the school, since the parking lot was already a mess of waiting cars and kids running everywhere, school buses loading up to leave.

"Ready to get your brother, pal?" John asked, his hands still shaking as he unstrapped Sammy from his car seat, self-loathing still coursing through his veins.

"Yeah!" Sammy beamed, and John winced at the hoarseness of his voice. For all the happiness and enthusiasm he put into his words, no one would ever have known about the absolute nightmare of a day he'd had. Dean had that effect on Sammy.

John frowned, appraising Sammy, thinking what he could do to make to make his child look more presentable. Even with a change of slightly cleaner clothes, the boy still looked like he'd been through the wringer. He spit-slicked Sammy's hair back to hide the chunk missing in the front and wiped off some more blue, sticky ice cream residue on Sammy's neck before deciding this was as good as it was gonna get.

You're definitely having another bath when you get home, kiddo, John thought as he lifted the disaster-magnet of a toddler out of his car seat, smart enough not to say the "B" word out loud until the tub was filled and Dean was there to help with the Sammy-wrangling.

Despite the scrapes on his poor knees, Sammy stubbornly insisted on walking. He held John's hand as the two of them walked past the student cross guards. They had barely taken two steps over the curb when John heard Sammy exclaim, "Ewww!", slowing to a stop.

"What now?" John sighed heavenward, thinking of Dean waiting for them, no doubt worried out of his mind and, knowing Dean, probably thinking that their lack of punctuality meant that a monster had got to them. Looking down, he saw that Sammy had just stepped in a big steaming pile of dog crap.

"Oh, Sammy..." John breathed, picking up his son under the armpits and moving over to the grass path away from the sidewalk to allow the other homeward kids to pass. He helped Sammy scuff his shoe along the grass, but the dog must've had a diet high in protein and the stuff held on like mortar. "You still like dogs, buddy?" John asked, as he worked on untying Sammy's shoelaces, knotted into oblivion by Dean. Impatient, John got out his knife and cut the laces off, deciding to abandon the shoe altogether and ditch it in the nearest trash can. He didn't want that smell in his car, and Sammy had nearly outgrown the shoes, anyway.

As John yanked the shoe off Sammy's bare foot, something fell onto the ground. "Sammy, what was this doing in—" John picked it up and turned it over in his hands, scrutinizing it. He face fell. Sammy looked up at him with wide eyes, making a game of balancing on one foot, teetering side to side to keep his balance. He puffed out his chest, thrusting out his hand and tugging persistently on John's sleeve. "Daddy, gimme! It's mine! It's my treasure!"

Indeed it was a treasure at first glance. It was gold coin, beautiful and ancient—and cursed. John had read about coins in this one's likeness that had started out manifesting seemingly common misfortunes for its owner that escalated, often times culminating in the death of the carrier. John had extensively studied cursed coins for a previous case he'd worked. He would have to check out a reference book to pinpoint the exact coin it was, and consult Bobby as well. He already recognized that the markings strongly suggested the occult. How it had come into Sammy's possession was beyond him; he would never keep anything so dangerous anywhere either of his boys could get their hands on it.

John ignored his son's demands to return the coin to him—he was never going to let Sammy lay his hands on the coin again. He ran his hand down his face and struggled to keep his voice even as he said, "Where did you get this?" Sammy looked down at his feet. Realizing he was using the voice Sammy usually associated with getting put in time-out, he softened his tone and said, "Buddy, you're not in trouble. But I need to know where you got this."

Looking somewhat reassured, Sammy scuffed the toe of his sock on the ground. "Pink!"

"Pink?" John repeated blankly. He didn't have time to decipher the meaning. Luckily for him, they were heading for Sammy's very own personal interpreter.

John stared hard at the coin in his hand. He felt sick to his stomach that Sammy had been walking around all day with a cursed object on him. He found no comfort in knowing the source of Sammy's mishaps hadn't been directly linked to him being unattentive or to his parenting skills, thinking of how close they'd come to disaster.

John straightened up, the coin clenched tight in his fist. Across the street, he saw a parking officer approaching the Impala, ticket pad in hand. John experimentally slipped the coin into his pocket, and the officer stopped in her tracks. She appeared to forget what she had been doing, and wandered away from the car, validating his theory that it was the sort of cursed coin that required direct skin contact to work its black magic. He lifted up Sammy's foot to see the bottom of his sock and, just as he'd suspected, saw a hole in the heel—which explained why his bad luck had been intermittent.

"Come on, Sammy," John said, picking the boy up and holding him tight. He was safe now, and his nightmarish day could finally behind be put behind him. Things would turn around now he had figured out what was wrong, and John vowed he would never let anything else hurt Sammy or Dean. Ever.

They left the soiled shoe in a dumpster and finally made it to the front of the school, where Dean was waiting anxiously for them under the flag pole.

"There you are!" Dean cried, running and pushing his way through the crowd to get to his family, flinging himself at John and hugging him tightly around the waist.

"Hey, kiddo. Sorry we're late. We ran into traffic," John told a half-truth, not wanting to trouble Dean about his brother's horrific choking incident or anything else that had happened. Sammy was wriggling to be let down and see his brother. "Dean!" he cried happily, throwing his arms in the air.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed with equal enthusiasm. John set Sammy down, and he in turn hugged Dean with all his might. "Did you miss me?" Dean asked. Sammy nodded fervently, positively clinging to Dean—he didn't know the half of it. "Dad...what happened to Sammy?" Dean asked, critically examine his little brother. John had been able to conceal the worst of Sammy's mishaps, but Dean looked at his little brother and seemed to inexplicably know everything.

"I had bad day, Dean," said Sammy dramatically, holding onto his brother tighter for comfort. Dean looked at him questioningly.

"He had a tough time without you around, Dean," John consented, then asked by way of distraction, "So how was your first day of school?"

"It was pretty good. My teacher was really nice," Dean exclaimed, his face brightening. John felt himself relax, breathing another sigh of relief. He'd been worried about how school and Dean would mesh. His face turned serious again. "But really Dad, what happened to Sammy?" John couldn't help but feel indignant at the note of accusation in Dean's voice. He brushed Sammy's slicked-back hair back down over his eyes. "What happened to his hair? And his chin? Where's his shoe? And Dad, these clothes are from the dirty laundry bag!"

John coughed, stalling for time as his eldest awaited an explanation for the state of his younger brother. He knew Dean's willingness to return to school hinged on his answer, and he in turn was indignant that he was being held accountable for his actions by a six-year-old. "Dean...Sammy, um...he had a few little accidents. Nothing major."

"What kinda accidents?" Dean asked, still hugging his little brother protectively.

John hated the separation he felt then, like there was an invisible wall between him and his sons—him and them. "Accidents like getting a paper cut, gum in his hair, and falling on his face when he was chasing some ducks. Then he stepped in some dog poop just now, so that's why he's missing a shoe."

"And I saw a cwown!" Sammy squeaked in a terrified voice, hiding his face in Dean's shoulder. He touched the knot on the back of his head. "Fwisbee!"

"And then there was a clown at the grocery store and some jackass hit him with a Frisbee at the park," John shrugged his shoulders helplessly as he put it all out there in the open for Dean to hear and judge him by. "Like I said, Sammy had a rough day. Dean—they were all accidents, I swear."

Dean stared hard at John with a look of intensity that was unnatural on one so young, as if X-Raying him and weighing his absolute faith in his father against his trainwreck of a little brother. At last Dean nodded and said, "I know, Dad. I know you would never let anything bad happen to Sammy."

John felt like he'd just been pardoned by the Pope himself. But there was still another matter on he urgently wanted to get to the bottom of. "Dean...you haven't seen a gold coin, have you?" John asked carefully, keeping his tone light and unaccusing. "It'd be really old looking with decorative symbols around the outside?"

"Yeah," said Dean slowly. "This morning...I was playing with blocks with Sammy and then he got the coin from—"

"Pink!" Sammy interrupted, pointing and yelling at the school building. "There—pink!"

John and Dean both whirled around to see what Sammy was talking about and saw Dean's teacher, Mrs. Benzel, standing at the window in her pale pink business suit, watching them with narrowed eyes. A split second later she was gone, leaving the two elder Winchesters staring dumbly at the window.

"...Mrs. Benzel gave it to him," Dean finished, still watching the window with a frown on his face. "Sammy took his shoes off when he was playing this morning in the classroom, and I was helping him put them back on. Mrs. Benzel came over and she said the coin was good luck, and told Sammy to put it in his shoe and keep it a secret if he wanted it to work. She asked me a lotta questions about Sammy today, Dad. She said she could tell he was special." Dean looked up at his father to see his face frozen, still staring intensely at the window. The look on his face made Dean scared; it looked like his eyes were burning. "Dad—was it the coin? Did it make all those bad things happen to Sammy?"

John didn't answer, as he was fighting between two powerful instincts. The first was to storm into the school, find Dean's teacher, rip her to shreds and then find out what sort of creature from hell she was, witnesses be damned. But an even more potent instinct than revenge won over—one to get his children to safety. John swooped down and scooped up Sammy, seized Dean's hand and cast a backward glance over his shoulder at the school as he began walking briskly to the Impala. Dean had to maintain a jogging pace at his side to keep up with him.

"We're moving again, aren't we?" Dean asked.

"Yes," said John shortly. No way were they staying in town if there was something gunning for Sammy and could have its eye on Dean next.

"Where?" Dean asked as they rounded the corner of the sidewalk and neared the crossing guards.

"You boys'll stay with Bill and Ellen while I figure this out."

"What about school?" Dean asked, picking up the pace.

"I'll have you in a new school by Monday," said John as they reached the car. Dean went around to the other side and helped John strap Sammy into his car seat.

"What d'you think she is, Dad?" Dean asked, his eyes shining with the excitement of having a monster for a teacher.

Witch? Demon? Shapeshifter? Succubus? A run-of-the-mill devil worshiper? Any guess was equally likely at this point. "I don't know yet, Dean. Mrs. Benzel might once have been a sweet little school teacher, but she sure as hell isn't anymore. No human can just vanish into thin air like that. I'll get Caleb and we'll come back with a full arsenal and hunt her down."

"But Dad," said Dean fretfully, "Why would Mrs. Benzel wanna hurt Sammy?"

Dean's words echoed in John's brain, "She asked me a lotta questions about Sammy...she could tell he was special..." it wasn't the first time John had a monster say his baby boy was special before he ganked them. The things that pure evil could possibly think were special in his Sammy were what kept him awake at night.

"I don't know, kiddo," John answered heavily. "But with both you and me looking out for Sammy, nothing like this will ever happen to him again. Okay?"

Instead of looking reassured, Dean's face fell, his shoulders slumping. "I didn't know it was bad luck, Dad, I swear—or I would've told you about it before you left!"

"Dean, this is not your fault, you hear me?" said John firmly, reaching out past Sammy's car seat to grip Dean's shoulders. "You had no way of knowing what that coin was. Today proved you look out for Sammy better than anyone. If you'd been with me today, I doubt half that stuff would've happened. I honestly don't know what I'd do without you, Dean. Sammy couldn't ask for a better big brother."

Sammy nodded in agreement, smiling past his mouthful of his fingers. "You good, Dean!" he said, placing his slobbery hand on Dean's face lovingly. Dean smiled shyly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "Eww—Sammy!"

John smiled warmly at the exchange between his boys, but Dean noticed that his smile didn't extend to his eyes. "You know it's not your fault either, right, Dad?"

John just smiled tightly, reaching out and ruffling Dean's hair. "Buckle up, kiddo." Dean obeyed as John moved into the front seat, started the car and pulled out onto the road, heading for the motel to pack up their stuff and turn in the keys to the room before skipping town.

Despite Dean's reassurances, John still held himself accountable for what had happened to Sammy that day. He felt he should have noticed the exchange between Sammy and Mrs. Benzel. She had seemed so kind, so normal that she hadn't even been on his radar...but he had learned that the culprit was often the unassuming ones. He'd let his guard down, and Sammy had suffered for it.

John swore there and then that he was never going to let something like this happen again. Today's events had brought his paranoia up to a whole new level—nowhere was safe. He wondered how appropriate it would be to subject his children's future teachers to the SSHW test (hunter jargon for Salt-Silver-Holy Water.) He would use this experience as a cautionary tale to never bring artifacts from his job home and risk letting another dangerous object fall into his sons' hands. He'd get a locked safe for the trunk, and soon, a storage unit as his collection grew. Items that couldn't be destroyed were always safer with hunters than floating around among civilians. He'd keep the storage unit a secret from Sammy and Dean, so he'd never risk getting them hurt.

But John Winchester had other business to take care of first. Something—whatever Mrs. Benzel was—had known exactly what that coin was, and had purposely planted it on Sammy. He didn't know why, but he intended to find out. He was out for revenge. Nothing harmed his kids and lived to tell about it.

The hunt was on.

...

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, see? It wasn't really John's fault that Sammy was having such a wretched day. He was cursed. Poor little guy :(
> 
> And yes, this story might have been at least partially inspired by "Bad Day at Black Rock." Sammy even lost his shoe!
> 
> Sammy growling at the old lady in the grocery store? Apparently I did that when I was a baby. It shocked both my mom and the other woman. It's one of my mom's favorite stories, and part of why my childhood nickname was "killer Kelly."
> 
> It wasn't in my plan to explore so much of the trials John must have faced as a single father, but I decided to go with it. I've read numerous articles about the stigma single parents face, and since I think being a single father was even less common in the time the story's set, I decided to go there. I wasn't around in the 80's, but the internet and my parents both informed me that no, baby changing tables in men's rooms were virtually unheard of. That's just a little example. Basically, I think John dealt with a lot more being a single dad than we give him credit for.
> 
> Mrs. Benzel seemed so nice, didn't she? I read in John's journal (and there's a reference in the show) that they were constantly surrounded by demons and the like growing up. John was aware, and that was part of why the Winchesters moved so often. Yes, Mrs. Benzel is a demon. I didn't exactly work out in my head why she wanted to mess with Sammy, apart from well—being a demon. But she did know he was one of Azazel's chosen few. Maybe she has a beef with Azazel. John and Caleb will exorcise her, you can bet that much!

**Author's Note:**

> Just some little side notes: Mrs. Benzel was the name of my kindergarten teacher, and Eleanor Hunsuckle is a character me and my friend have crop up in a lot of our stories we co-write :)
> 
> I used 'Sammy' in my narration instead of 'Sam', because I think it brings to mind his age easier.
> 
> As usual with my story, this is based on an entry in John's journal where he held Dean back a year because he was anxious about sending Dean to school, but when he finally did, Dean was anxious and made him swear to look after Sammy.
> 
> There will be plenty of mishaps in the next chapter, as Sammy has a rough first day without his big brother. This has been a WIP of mine for months so I decided to post to force myself to finish it. If that makes any sense!


End file.
